


Le Siècle

by rlb190



Category: The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Kidnapping, Missing, Missing Persons, Psychological Torture, Torture, hunt to find him, sword fights, third person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-06 23:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10347465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rlb190/pseuds/rlb190
Summary: d'Artagnan has gone missing, and the Musketeers (plus Planchet) need to find him before it's too late. Meanwhile, rumors of rebellion arise in the palace, leaving Constance to keep the peace between Anne and Louis, without letting it on that d'Artagnan has been kidnapped.





	1. Dirt Floors

d'Artagnan opened his eyes. The pain was the first thing that broke through the comfortable warmth of unconsciousness. His head hurt. His arm really hurt. His first thought was a hangover (the others tended to convince him to indulge when he never would before), but that didn’t quite fit. He’d barely been drinking at all, last he could recall.  
He blinked once, then twice, noting as an unfamiliar ceiling came into view. He felt his back on a cold floor, probably dirt, and lifted his head, trying to get a good look at where he was. With the lifting of his head, he brought on a wave of nausea that nearly knocked him down with the intensity of it.  
He felt like he did when his father’s horse had kicked him in the stomach once, when he was a child. Breathless and aching. Maybe he could just close his eyes…  
He had to focus. He was somewhere he’d never been before. Why? Flashes came back into his mind, like paintings. What happened? He said good night to the others, he was going- where was he going? A face flashed in his mind, blonde hair, graceful smile, Constance! He was going to see her-, he was cornered between some buildings, completely surrounded. There was a fight- his arm. d’Artagnan tried to make his hand into a fist- and that was bad idea. Pain rolled up from his right forearm up to shoulder. He wanted to vomit.

Now he was crumpled on the floor of a damp, dark cell, small enough to feel suffocating but large enough to fit a few people into it. He growled in frustration. He had a useless limb and no idea where he was. He forced himself to focus again. He had to get up and figure out where he was, and how the hell he was going to get out. That was the most important thing.

He managed to turn fully onto his right side, then rotate his legs under him so he was kneeling. From there he braced his shoulder against the wall (made of dirt? Maybe he was underground) and moved up to a standing position. He slipped a little at the end and banged his back against the wall. The pain nearly made him pass out but he managed to stay standing, breathing past the pulsing agony and the nausea.

The cell was so featureless. Dirt walls, dirt ceiling, dirt floor, and some sort of staircase that led up. He was underground for sure. Above him, he heard footsteps and the dirt above him fell a bit into the cell. There were people above him. D’Artagnan walked unsteadily around the walls, leaning heavily for support, but there there didn’t seem to be or anything else. He moved towards the staircase, wooden, and crept his way up of it, confronted with two large metal doors with no handles on the inside. He pushed against it with his good arm, but it didn’t budge. It was probably locked form the outside. Gathering all the strength he could, he gave one swift kick to the door.  
Nothing.  
After inspecting the place a bit more with his head pounding, he eased back to the floor, settling into an awkward kneeling position, trying to figure out what the hell to do next.

The minutes ticked by slowly, with nothing to measure them except the throbbing ache in his arm and head. Suddenly, from the other side of the door came a heavy clank and some noises.

d’Artagnan scrambled up, heart racing, adrenaline sharpening his senses and dulling the throbbing in his arm.

The door swung open. A man strode forward, and before d’ Artagnan could react, and kicked him in the stomach.

d’Artagnan dropped like a stone, falling to his side with a cry as the impact jarred his senses. His ears were ringing, the world spun. He felt a hot liquid in his throat from the sheer force of the kick, and spat out the blood that had pooled in his mouth from the first blow.  
Not good.

Aramis woke at dawn everyday. He rose with the sun and said his prayers as the world came into light, enjoying the peaceful silence as he dressed. He would be in solitude for a few hours before the others woke up.   
But today, there was a knock at the door as the sun rose gently over the city, promising a new day. Aramis went to the door and opened it.

There, in a rumpled looking nightdress and a cloak stood Constance, shivering in the cool spring air. There were dark circles under her eyes.  
“Is d'Artagnan with you?” she asked. Not waiting for a reply, she added, “He never met me last night.”  
Aramis opened the door further, leaving space for Constance.   
“Come in, dear.” 

_____

Constance rubbed her hands together nervously and paced in kitchen. Aramis clasped his hands together, resting his chin on his hands.  
“He was supposed to meet me last night. He never showed up. He told me that he would come. Something terrible has happened, I feel it.”

Aramis sighed. “He could have just gotten drunk and is sleeping in an alley somewhere.”

Constance shook her head. “No. He would never get drunk when we meet. Something is wrong.”  
The door opened suddenly, revealing a rather pudgy man wrapped in a brown coat, carrying a long package wrapped in leather  
“Planchet!”  
The servant jumped at this sudden exclamation. “Armais- oh, Lady Constance! What brings you here, the Queen is alright, isn’t she? Do you need us to save the day once again?” Constance paled. “Planchet what are you carrying?”  
Planchet looked down at his package, as though he had forgotten about it.  
“Ah, it’s d’Artagnan’s sword- I saw it on the way here and I thought he might have-!”  
Aramis felt the color drain from his face. He crossed himself.  
“He wouldn’t go anywhere without his sword. Something has happened to him.”

____  
“Richelieu?” d’Artagnan questioned. The figure, a man, he presumed, wearing a black mask said nothing as he cracked his knuckles.  
“Think again.”  
Then he drove his fist into the weakened man’s chest again, and again, and again, and again. d’Artagnan faded in and out of the next minutes, the next hours, says, everything blurred together. When he heard his own ribs crack, he brought his mind to Constance, her smile, her attitude and the way she carried herself. Her eyes. He just had to remember her eyes.

Her eyes were blue. He tried to see those blue eyes.  
When the masked man stepped on his broken arm using a heavy steel-toed boot, he thought of her smile, the blush on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. Her blue eyes.

He held onto those blue eyes like his life depended on it.   
Because it did.


	2. Chapter 2

d’Artagnan swallowed down a wave of fear as the door to his dirt-prison opened. He could not be seens as week. The same man who has come down before approached him, and even without the man talking, d’Artagnan could feel the difference in the intent. His chest and arm seared with renewed pain but he managed to keep his face neutral, after all, there was no reason to give the idiot any more insight into what d’Artagnan was feeling.

“How are we today?” the man asked.

_ “Me faut retourner à la pute qui m'a accouchée.”  _ d’Artagnan spat out. His insult to the man’s mother didn't seem to bother the goon, who d’Artagnan thus dubbed  _ Connard _ , a jerk, for the sake of giving a name to the shadowy figure.

“Care to tell me what this is all about?”

Connard tilted his head. “In due time. In the meanwhile, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

d’Artagnan spat at Connard’s feet. “Up yours!”

This time, the insult caused a strong palm to slap d’Artagnan across his face, hitting him so hard he was starting to see stars. Coppery blood filled his mouth and he swallowed, hiding his grimace.

“In that case, I suppose it is time we move on to the…persuasion.”

d'Artagnan gritted his teeth and glared, forcing his face to show none of the trepidation he felt. Not only did he have to withstand more of this, he had to have enough presence of mind to keep from spilling his plan, no matter what they did to him. Of course he had a plan, he was a Musketeer. He always had a plan. Now it was just about waiting for the right right moment. Until then this was all about willpower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter while I try to finish up exams! I'm currently in the middle of studying for French, so I figure this counts as studying, right? I have to say, French insults are the best. Connard means jerk or idiot, and Me faut retourner à la pute qui m'a accouchée (roughly translated) means 'go back to the whore of a mother who gave birth to you'. Very useful indeed.
> 
> ce n'est pas terrible.... 
> 
> xoxo,  
> rlb190


	3. Another Time

d’Artagnan swallowed down a wave of fear as the door to his dirt-prison opened. He could not be seens as weak. The same man who has come down before approached him, and even without the man talking, d’Artagnan could feel the difference in the intent. His chest and arm seared with renewed pain but he managed to keep his face neutral, after all, there was no reason to give the idiot any more insight into what d’Artagnan was feeling.

“How are we today?” the man asked.

_ “Me faut retourner à la pute qui m'a accouchée.”  _ d’Artagnan spat out. His insult to the man’s mother didn't seem to bother the goon, who d’Artagnan thus dubbed  _ Connard _ , a jerk, for the sake of giving a name to the shadowy figure.

“Care to tell me what this is all about?”

Connard tilted his head. “In due time. In the meanwhile, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

d’Artagnan spat at Connard’s feet. “Up yours!”

This time, the insult caused a strong palm to slap d’Artagnan across his face, hitting him so hard he was starting to see stars. Coppery blood filled his mouth and he swallowed, hiding his grimace.

“In that case, I suppose it is time we move on to the…persuasion.”

**d'Artagnan gritted his teeth and glared, forcing his face to show none of the trepidation he felt. Not only did he have to withstand more of this, he had to have enough presence of mind to keep from spilling his plan, no matter what they did to him. Of course he had a plan, he was a Musketeer. He always had a plan. Now it was just about waiting for the right right moment. Until then this was all about willpower. **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter while I try to finish up exams! I'm currently in the middle of studying for French, so I figure this counts as studying, right? I have to say, French insults are the best. Connard means jerk or idiot, and Me faut retourner à la pute qui m'a accouchée (roughly translated) means 'go back to the whore of a mother who gave birth to you'. Very useful indeed.
> 
> ce n'est pas terrible.... 
> 
> xoxo,  
> rlb190


	4. False Face Doth Hide

Constance arrived at the palace to greet the Queen as she rose and dressed. Although tradition called for a huge affair, women of distinction would come and have the honor of dressing Anne, she only did so on special occasions. Anne seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. She never saw the point in spending hours getting ready in the morning, so Constance tried to follow their routine. She went and fetched breakfast for the Queen (a selection of fruit), and set it down on the Queen's table while Anne shrugged out of her nightclothes behind a screen.

"Constance?"�

"It is.:� Constance replied wearily.

"Sounds like you had a late night. Did you see your d'Artagnan again?"�

Constance felt the color drain from her face as recalled the morning's events, although it should have been flushed. She pinched her cheeks sharply with her index finger and thumb, hoping to bring color to them.

"Is it that obvious?" Constance exclaimed, pulling the lie quite well. Anne stuck her head out from behind the paper screen, her orange hair tousled from sleep. "Ah, you're blushing!" Constance gave a sheepish smile and covered her cheeks with her palms as Anne went back behind the curtain.

"How is he? Dashing as ever, I suppose?"�

Constance paused for a beat, and giving off what she hoped sounded like a love-sick sigh. "As always. I miss him."� Constance paused at her mistake. "But you just spent the night together! You miss him so soon? What a love you share."� Anne commented. She walked out from behind the screen, dress and petticoat on, a lovely blue shade adored with golden flowers stitched into it for design.

Constance stood up as Anne walked over to her and turned around, lifting her hair up as Constance tied the stings of her friend's dress tightly, causing Anne to draw her breath in slightly. "No worries!"� Anne said breathlessly. Constance finished and tied it off with a tight bow. Anne let her hair down and Constance brushed it until her curls were untangled and hair neat.

Anne put on her jewelry, Constance did her makeup. It was a routine. It was familiar. Constance enjoyed the familiarity in light of her lover's mysterious disappearance. But as Constance finished, Anne suddenly said,

"You know, my husband is throwing a ball for the start of spring. He's invited the musketeer guard to attend! They will come, won't they?" Constance didn't skip a beat.

"Of course they will."�

* * *

 

"We can't go." Arthos muttered. Constance had just delivered to them a note by a messenger, the King had invited them to a spring ball. Porthos sighed, clearly troubled. "We have to. If we reject and invitation from the Royal Court..."� Porthos shook his head, concerned.

"Can't we just say he's ill?" Planchet suggested. Aramis shook his head. "Only if he was on his death bed would he not go. The King himself knows that. We need to get him back. We have twenty days until the ball. Factoring in injury recovery, I'd say we have fifteen days at most to find him and to kill the bastards who took him."

* * *

�"Do you know where you are?" asked Connard. "How can I?" Artagnan sassed bitterly. "I don't even know why I am here." Suddenly, he was thrown roughly to his feet, and ushered up the dirt stairs. AT first, he was greeted with the bright light of day. Wincing, not adjusted to the light, he paused in his step, only to be shoved forwards.

The sharp movement caused pain to roll down d'Artagnan's shoulder and arm. When his eyes adjusted, he found himself in a courtyard, made of stone. High towers bordered every inch, armed with men who held crossbows and guns. d'Artagnan cursed to himself. He knew exactly where he was, and he knew it wasn't good.

Bastile.

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long! there was something weird in the formatting when I tried to post.... Also a shoutout to my French buddy Elys03. You kept me motivated! C'est parti , my fine friend.  
> Hope you enjoyed!  
> xoxo,  
> rlb190


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